


Welcome to Cold Oak

by fangasmic



Series: The Ballad of Cold Oak [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Multi, semi-original characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangasmic/pseuds/fangasmic
Summary: Cold Oak is an off-putting sort of place, but it might just the kind of off-putting that outlaws Dean and Sam Winchester are looking for.





	Welcome to Cold Oak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gorned](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorned/gifts).



Cold Oak is a off putting sort of place, not a whole lot of ‘welcome’ to it.  It’s a bit dusty and more than a little grey, but Dean Winchester and his younger brother Sammy don’t have much choice in having to stop there.  They’re running low on supplies and even lower on funds, so Dean lets Sammy think he’s talked him into stopping.  They tie their horses, Baby and Brady respectively, up to the hitching post in front of the town saloon, and go their separate ways to have a look around.

Sammy goes off in the direction of the General Store, tasked with loading up on provisions, while Dean heads into the saloon, entitled _Miss E’s Social Parlor_ in fancy grey-white letters on the sign over the door, hoping to see if there are any fools inside looking to part with their money.

It’s a nice sort of place, really.  Much fancier than the outside might suggest.  Barman’s a quiet sort of fellow, clean and groomed, and more than happy to pour Dean a shot of the house special whiskey.  It’s got some kind of kick to it too, but not like the usual rotgut.  Sweet, almost, like honey, but spicy at the same time, and it burns but good.  He willingly parts with a little bit of his remaining cash to get buy a second shot even though he and Sammy really can’t afford it.

There’s a lawman over in one corner, laughing with a lady for hire on each knee.  His badge catches the light and Dean makes out the word Sheriff.  Fellow sure does look like an easy sort, but the less law paying attention to him and his brother the better.  They’ve already got enough to deal with, considering the pair of US Marshals that have been trailing them since the Lawrence job.  Dean takes a seat at one of the tables over by the piano man and starts looking for a mark.

Dean immediately rules out the angry looking man sitting at the next table over, even if he is playing a hand or two against himself.  He looks like the type that’d want to settle things with his iron if'n he lost the game and Dean’s in a position where he needs to avoid that kind of attention.  There’s a dark haired kid sitting at another table with a young man in want of a haircut, and Dean files him away for later.  He looks like the cocky sort, easily goaded into making poor judgements.  It’d be a service to part the kid from his cash and maybe teach him a thing or two in the process.  The long haired fellow turns his head, fixing Dean with a stare that makes Dean feel more'n a little odd, and shakes his head like he can hear what’s happening in Dean’s mind.  It’s mildly creepifying, to say the least.

A peal of laughter draws Dean’s attention to the landing at the top of the stairs.  Two gorgeous women, arms wrapped around each other, lean against the railing and wave down to the barman.  He shakes his head and Dean hopes that he wins enough money to engage them for the evening.  He’ll take the lovely senorita, let Sammy have her milk'n'honey friend, and they’ll both sleep the best they have in a long while.

After a time, and two more shots of the sweet-spicy house special, Dean ends up engaged in a game of cards with an Irishman who’s a bit too good for Dean’s taste.  The drink and the loss, combined with the fact that Sammy hasn’t joined him yet, puts Dean in a filthy sort of mood.  The Irishman is too jovial, too proud, too… everything… and Dean’s behavior falls just this side of belligerent.  He gets up from his chair, pointing his finger in the Irishman’s face, and demands they take it outside.

“Is there a _problem_ , sir?”

The cool voice from the bar stops him, chilling him to the bone and making the hairs stand up on the back of neck.  The smile the owner of the voice gives him is just as cold, if not colder.  Dean’s eyes go to the thin, pale fingers brushing against the pistol at the man’s side and then back to the man’s face.  It’s a damn shame that Dean’s always been prettier than he is smart.  That’s the only explanation for the smile he gives in return before shaking his head.  “My problem’s with Irish here, not you, kid.  How’s 'bout you let us men settle our differences and stay out of business that ain’t yours.”

The man gets off his stool, taking a few steps toward the table, and Dean notices that the music’s stopped.  They’re all staring at him; the barman, the two whores, the piano player, and the scowling card player.  There’s something sort of odd about them and Dean wonders if he’s actually bitten off more'n he can chew this time.  He forces a jovial smile and pushes his own brown leather coat back, revealing his trusty Colt.  The fellow, cold and creepifying as he might be, has soft, pretty hands, almost like a woman’s.  Dean’s fairly certain he’s never fired the weapon at his waist and, confident in his own ability, Dean’s certain he never will.

Dean’s attention is pulled away from the situation as a woman emerges at the top of the stairs.  She’s pretty as a picture, all dressed in red, with dark hair and a cameo of an angel at her throat.  Her posture’s a bit stiff as she slowly saunters down the staircase, but Dean can’t take his eyes off her.  There’s a sort of smile on her face, disdainful but inviting all at once, and Dean nods his head to her.  To his disappointment, she stops next to the man who’s all but challenged him and places her hand on his arm.  “Now, 'Lial, that’s not very welcoming,” she admonishes.

“My apologies, Essie,” he answers, letting his coat fall back to conceal his weapon.

“You’ll have to pardon my brother, Mister…”

“Campbell.  John Campbell,” Dean supplies.

Essie smiles again and Dean thinks, for a moment, that this woman could shoot him dead and not even flinch if'n it suited her.  “Well Mister Campbell, please pardon my brother.  It’s Lial’s job to enforce the rules of this establishment.  I’m sure you understand.  I don’t much care for violence in my bar, even if it is only a suggestion.  You want to beat the hell out of one of my regulars, you keep that to yourself until you’re out on the street.  Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Dean replies.

Her eyes flick up and down his frame before she wrinkles her nose just a fraction.  “Not that it’d amount to much.  It’d be a shame for you to lose any of those teeth,” she adds.  “Welcome to Cold Oak, Mister Campbell.  Do enjoy your stay, won’t you?”

Dean nods and sits back down in his chair, reaching for the cards.  Essie sweeps out of the room and back up the stairs in a flash of red, leaving them to deal with a satisfied sort of silence.  The towheaded man at piano starts up again, playing a jaunty sort of tune that makes the laughter and background noise start up again.  The Irishman shakes his head, rolling a pick between his teeth, and laughing.  “Word of advice, pretty boy.  Don’t even think about it.  Her brothers’d kill you first,” he states.

“Obviously not speaking from experience, Irish, seeing as you’re still alive.”

The Irishman turns to glance up the stairs, earning himself a glare from Lial for the action, and smiles a bit sadly as he turns back.  “Essie’s not for you, fella.”

Dean snorts and deals the cards, brushing off the comment and wondering what the hell is taking Sammy so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from tumblr (6 years old, yeesh), just to test out the mechanics of AO3 and to poke my head in this bar. A love letter to my forever cherished NRFTW family. All credit for the original characters is to the beautiful writers who brought them to life.


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